


kiss me, i don't care if it hurts

by jos10



Category: B.A.P
Genre: DESCRIPTIONS OF WOUNDS?? its not really graphic or anything, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, contract killer!yongguk, despite the title they don't kiss, frequent mentions of blood, himchan is sad and frustrated and in love, idk - Freeform, inspired by the skydive mv, its sad and gay, kind of an ambiguous ending, lapslock, nurse!himchan, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 22:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jos10/pseuds/jos10
Summary: himchan was starting to regret this whole setup he and yongguk had, and it wasn't just because of the steadily multiplying bloodstains on his welcome mat.





	kiss me, i don't care if it hurts

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for my english class oops  
> also the beginning is kinda shit it gets better i promise

tonight, it had started like this: himchan had pulled on a pair of sweats and an oversized hoodie, brushed his teeth, grabbed his laptop from where he had left it on the kitchen table, and was just pulling back the covers of the bed that had been constantly on his mind for his entire shift at work when the doorbell rang. his first response was to slap his own cheek to make sure that lack of sleep wasn’t beginning to make him hear things, since it was high time his insomnia had some sort of negative effect on him — there was no sound for a few seconds, but as soon as himchan had finally decided he _was_ hearing things the aggravating buzz had sounded again, and himchan cursed.

he knew who it was, he just didn’t want to believe it — he never wanted to believe it. he cast one last longing look at his bed and stomped towards his apartment door, ignoring the air of regret and resent clinging to his heart.

himchan didn’t really know what he had been expecting, but he knew he definitely should have been expecting _this_ . _this_ stood on his doorstep in the form of bang yongguk, black hair tumbling in a loose curly mess over his forehead, piercings glittering in the dim light his porch offered, studded leather jacket hanging from his shoulders, and blood that shone almost black in the dim light leaking from every corner of his body.

it was two o’clock in the morning when himchan had only just gotten off his late shift at the hospital, and he really didn’t want to be dealing with this. but he was trained to deal with situations like this and the blood yongguk was dripping down onto his welcome mat was creating an ugly stain, the man who showed up on his doorstep too often swaying dangerously from loss of blood.

so he, like every time, dealt with it.

“get inside before i call the cops,” he muttered, gesturing for yongguk to step past the threshold and into his home.

“that’s what you say every time,” yongguk’s sonorous voice came in response, relaxing and letting himself be gently pulled towards the couch he was set down onto almost every night, “you’ve still never called them.”

it was a routine. himchan hated it, but ever since the man first showed up on his doorstep, he had never found himself turning him away. himchan didn’t really know why. perhaps it was ingrained into him as a doctor, to react immediately at the sight of any sort of wound, internal or external, or perhaps it was simply ingrained into any decent human being. himchan wished he knew. maybe it was his upbringing — himchan’s mother had taught him never to talk to strangers, but she had also taught him to never leave someone behind if they needed help. or perhaps he just made dumb, stupid descisions sometimes. himchan didn’t have much to work with the first time yongguk had appeared and he had only had to hope that the advanced first aid kit he kept in the cupboard under his sink would be enough for the number of wounds there had been scattered over the man’s body. ever since the first time, himchan had been sneaking little things he knew he would need from the hospital into the deep pockets of his scrubs while on his shifts, and had eventually accumulated enough medical apparatus that he could say he had created a fairly decent at-home infirmary. it wasn’t really legal, but himchan was also pretty sure there was nothing about what he and yongguk were doing that was legal.

while himchan closed the door, yongguk discarded his leather coat on the armrest of the couch and dropped beside it, pulling his white (and stained deep reds, heavy with blood) shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it on top of his jacket.

“any i can’t see?” himchan asked offhandedly, pulling bandages and gauze and alcohol wipes one after the other from the box underneath the coffee table where he kept everything he needed for when yongguk visited. yongguk shook his head slightly, and himchan nodded. himchan cleaned the cuts littered over yongguk’s arms and chest and face with the alcohol wipes, still amazed by the fact that yongguk never once flinched or showed any sign of discomfort at the stinging pain. most of his patients did, but he guessed yongguk had been doing this all so much that he hardly felt it anymore. they didn’t ever share many words while himchan was fixing him up — and when they did they were half-hearted conversations that didn’t last long, but tonight himchan felt restless.

he hesitated before talking. he knew yongguk could tell he wanted to say something, and that was why he was so silent. sometimes it frustrated himchan, how patient yongguk always was.

“you know, one day you’re gonna show up on my doorstep and i'm not gonna be home,” himchan said finally. it was casual, but it didn’t take a smart man to recognise that it was laced with anxiety.

“are you saying i'm too dependant?” yongguk objected calmly. himchan offered a bitter smile in return.

“i'm saying you should be careful.”

“have you met me?”

“yongguk,” he begged, “one day i'm going to come home and there’s going to be a dead body on my doorstep because _you_ don’t have the guts to quit whatever awful hobby you have. yes, i'm saying you’re too dependant. i’m not an angel, yongguk.”

 _i can’t really quit_ , yongguk wanted to say, but instead he smiled and said, “you’ll always be here.”

there was silence for a second, and himchan thought about how much he hated him.

“i can’t promise that,” he whispered. yongguk lifted a hand to skim his thumb gently, a feather-like touch, underneath himchan’s eye, brushing away a tear himchan didn’t even know was there. yongguk’s soft smile never left his face.

“that’s okay.”

himchan felt like every time yongguk showed up with another wound in another area of his body, he talked more, and himchan learned something new. yongguk was an enigma, an unfinished puzzle, and every couple days himchan earned a new piece by fixing another part of yongguk’s broken body. so far, himchan knew this: he was called bang yongguk, he was twenty-seven years old and born somewhere in incheon (which wasn’t far from himchan’s birthplace, seoul, and judging by the scattered descriptions of his youth, himchan figured yongguk was born in the ongjin county), he was secretive but subtly open at the same time, and he worked a dangerous and probably illegal job at night and at the local animal shelter by day. himchan wasn’t actually supposed to know all of that, or at least, yongguk hadn’t told him any of it, instead himchan had picked up bits and pieces about him from conversations they had. he knew about the animal shelter because he had washed yongguk’s shirt for him the first night yongguk came and found his employee tag in the front pocket. he had thought yongguk would want a clean shirt, since he had figured it was a one-time thing. it wasn’t.

himchan wound the fourth strip of bandage over a gash on yongguk’s bicep, neatly pinning it with an elastic clip and struggling not to return the searching gaze wandering over his body. yongguk did this sometimes — observe himchan, like he was trying to figure out all the secrets and worries himchan held inside, like if he looked at him for long enough, he would find a weakness in his shell to tear himchan’s anxiety from the deepest parts of his body and soul. yongguk was a quiet person, but himchan could tell it was because he used his eyes more than he used his mouth. himchan decided to break the awkward silence that had fallen over the pair.

“what do you do every night, yongguk?”

it looked like yongguk had been anticipating this question to come eventually. himchan had been holding it back.

“do you expect me to tell you?”

himchan sighed. “you work at an _animal shelter_ in the daytime, yongguk, but you come home beat up every night.”

it registered, momentarily, in the back of himchan’s mind that he had just said _home_ , but he pushed away the thought immediately. he knew that he shouldn’t care about yongguk, especially with what he could be about to learn. himchan noticed hesitation dancing in yongguk’s eyes for a quiet minute before he spoke again.

“i kill people, himchan. for a guy i don’t even know.”

it didn’t hit himchan as hard as he thought it would, but it still hurt like a jarring punch to his stomach. he let yongguk finish.

“every evening after i’ve left the shelter i meet my source in the car park and he gives me a name. then i deal with them. i get beat up more than i should because i’m sloppy and don’t care about the job. i don’t enjoy it but it pays and my boss won’t let me quit.”

himchan closed his eyes tightly, a forced smile stuttering on his lips.

“look at us two,” he said bitterly, “a doctor and a murderer.”

“you could call the police. it’s easy. why don’t you?”

himchan opened his mouth to say something smart, but the only thing that left it was silence. _he could_ . he could pull his phone out the back pocket of his faded jeans, dial the police, and tell them everything. he could watch as they dragged yongguk away, he could look at yongguk’s sad smile one more time before the police pushed him down into the car to be never seen again. maybe he’d see him in the newspaper or on the television or in offhand conversations with his colleagues. but he’d never _see_ him again, not really. and as much as himchan wanted to deny it, the thought of never seeing yongguk again _hurt_.

yongguk’s voice was cold and devoid of emotion when he spoke again, but himchan was sure he could detect something like hopeful, bitter fear laced between the harsh words. “please don’t say you’ve become attached.”

himchan let the silence sit for a while. his gloved fingers paused where they had been dancing over yongguk’s skin, placing steri-strips over a cut above yongguk’s eye. they were impossibly close. himchan smiled a sad smile. yes, perhaps he had become attached. all of this was decidedly illegal — everything about yongguk was illegal, everything about what himchan was doing for him was probably illegal too. himchan’s life was a mess and he hadn’t once stopped to think about it. himchan tested the words in his mind like one would test the water of a pool. he was a nurse who spent his life helping the sick and injured back to health, and yongguk was a contract kiler who spent _his_ life doing the exact opposite. and still, himchan had become _attached_ to him — it was almost a storyline out of some sort of sadistic romance novel.

“yongguk,” himchan began as he was clearing away the mess of used alcohol wipes and discarded medical apparatus on the coffee table, “what if one day it’s me?”

yongguk had one of himchan’s grey hoodies hanging off of his thinner frame. it made him look small, innocent almost, and seeing yongguk in _his_ hoodie struck a chord in himchan’s heart.

“what do you mean?”

“what if one day you go to your source, he rolls down the window or whatever, and then he hands you a document with ‘kim himchan’ printed on it? would you do it?”

“i'm typically only sent to target high-end businessmen, drug dealers, or my source’s personal enemies, himchan. i highly doubt you’re any of those.”

“okay,” himchan said, and yongguk could tell he wasn’t going to give up so soon, “hypothetically, then. what if it was me? what if your next target was me?”

“would i hypothetically kill you?”

“yes.”

there was a horrible, gut-wrenching pause, so himchan spoke again before he could combust out of nervousness. “if it’s yes, just say it. i know i'm not important to you.”

“oh come on, himchan,” yongguk scoffed, “do you know how hard it is to find someone who’ll stitch me up every night without complaint?”

“i don’t do it without complaint, yongguk,” himchan reminded him.

yongguk sighed. “no.”

“no to what?” himchan asks, just to make sure they were on the same page. it came out casual, but cautious at the same time. the short second before yongguk answered seemed far too much longer than it was and made himchan’s skin itch with agitation.

“no, i wouldn’t do it.”

he probably should have said something, but anything he tried to say just got stuck in his throat. so himchan regained his composure and left a comfortable silence in the wake of their conversation.

 

* * *

 

crime wasn’t as common in south korea as it was in other areas, but he supposed crime was what came with living on the south side of the han river, around the gangseo and yeongdeungpo districts. himchan worked at the local hospital and often took late shifts, coming home at midnight or later almost every day. the hospital was rarely quiet, as being located nearby to the han river also meant frequent suicide attempts since mapo bridge, the bridge crossing the han river that connected the mapo and yeongdeungpo districts in seoul, was a popular spot for jumpers.

himchan thought a lot about the fact that yongguk, the man who he let into his home every night to stitch up incisions in his skin and clean blood from his tired frame, worked at an animal shelter. he could never picture yongguk, tall and smiling and standing in the clear light of day, holding puppies and kittens in his strong arms, because the most human he had ever seen yongguk was the sparse times when he stayed the night and was gone by morning. when he curled up on himchan’s couch in one of himchan’s hoodies after being treated, bandages and steri-strips scattered over the planes of his peaceful face, scissors and used alcohol wipes and other odd materials himchan had found in his house left lying on the coffee table, himchan imagined that this was the only time at night when yongguk looked at peace.

himchan’s yongguk didn’t belong to the sun, or to the pale blue sky, or to puppies and yellow flowers. himchan’s yongguk belonged to the night. he belonged in dim light, beneath the stars, glistening with sweat and blood in the porch light. himchan’s yongguk did not sit with him by the window and drink coffee while having simple conversations about the weather and the cat he had seen on his way there. himchan’s yongguk sat — shirtless and smeared with blood — on his couch as he let himchan pull needles through his skin and wrap bandages over his wounds, while sharing scattered, empty words and conversation filled with unanswered, unwanted questions.

and yet himchan had grown attached. some nights he would slip out of bed to sit on the carpet beside the couch, beside yongguk, and would brush yongguk’s tousled hair out the way from where it tumbled over his closed eyes, would just sit and look at everything about the man he had, in a way, come to care for. he would look at the way yongguk’s thick, black, wavy hair curled above the sole freckle on his right cheekbone, would listen to the soft, rhythmic sound of yongguk’s breath leaving through the gap between his plush, wide, parted lips like a barely-there wisp of wind, would admire the way his dark eyelashes cast shadows as they brushed lightly against his warm complexion, would observe the way the golden undertones of his skin gently glowed in the feeble light that shone weakly from the open door of his bedroom, and would think about the way his angular and slightly puffy, soft and gentle, black eyes, like tea without milk — bitter but warm — were so unlike the rest of him. himchan believed that yongguk’s eyes and the gentle touch of his fingers were the only parts of him that had retained the softness and tenderness himchan was sure he had had at a time long before criminality and murder. he would think about the way yongguk made him worry so much, and yet also made him feel impossibly calm.

“don’t make this frequent,” himchan begged him, as he opened the door for him to leave after checking over every bandage and stitch and steri-strip twice, maybe three times to make sure nothing was loose or out of place. he understood, every time, that the words were completely useless, and he knew what yongguk would give as a response.

yongguk winced slightly as he leaned against the doorframe, shivering ever so slightly in the frigid air. “i try not to.”

it was a lie, himchan knew, because it’s what he said every single night. yongguk always came back. himchan smiled.

“no, you don’t,” he sighed. it was pointless to argue, because yongguk always just smiled and stayed quiet through himchan’s frustrated rants, and held himchan in his arms after as he slowly fell apart. he watched as yongguk left.

 

* * *

 

at three o’clock in the morning two days after, himchan opens the door to yongguk’s bruised and battered face. there’s a deep plum-coloured bruise just below the freckle on his cheek, he has a busted lip, and blood is smeared over his chin where it had trickled down.

“i tried,” yongguk mutters, blood beginning to bead again from the split in his lip.

“no, you didn’t,” himchan smiles, and pulls him towards the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr and wonhoshugs and twitter and instagram at chanyeolup!


End file.
